


This One Thing

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Related, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't have everything. Maybe you shouldn't even try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This One Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by [this awesome video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XGK84Poeynk&feature=player_embedded) by symphonyofscience.

        _You can't have everything. Where would you put it?_    —Steven Wright

  
He finds Rodney in the Scenario Room again with its walls of gold, green and silver, the console lit under Rodney's fingers and that stupid cap on his head, and John sighs and leans on the wall for a second before going over and nudging a hip against Rodney's shoulder.

He's slow to respond—even slower than last time—and John gets scared, wondering what experience Rodney has conjured for himself, what enticing thing could pull him away, pull him possibly deeper and further until nothing in the here and now will be enough to keep him, to hold him, even though it's crazy—John knows it can't work like that. It's just a training tool.

"Rodney," John says, and bumps him again. "Rodney!"

Just before John has to reach out and physically break the connection between Rodney and the console, Rodney does it for him, lifting his hands and removing the cap, his eyes opening to blink in confusion.

"Oh. Oh, that was—John. Hi—"

John clenches his teeth together, trapping angry words. After a second he says, "You missed lunch. You're about to miss dinner, too, so—"

"Hungry. Am I hungry?" Rodney frowns. "Yes, I think I am," he says slowly.

"Great. That's just great," John doesn't quite snap, and turns, but waits until he hears Rodney stand up, until he's sure Rodney's following, before leading the way out the door.

:::

John tells himself he's not going to say anything at dinner, and watches under cover of his coffee mug while Rodney picks his way through the stewed baby carrots, reconstituted potatoes and thingloaf. Rodney's allowed to do whatever he wants to on his day off; so what if they had plans to hang out and play chess? It's just regular chess, not _codeword: chess,_ which is something totally different and only happens later at night when they have an excuse to be in their quarters for a nice long time.

And Weir said the Scenario Room was for everyone, and that no one had to talk about what scenarios they chose to experience. The time slots had been apportioned by random lottery, but once everyone who wanted to try it had been through it once, interest had fallen off pretty quickly.

Once John did his slot, he knew why. None of the scenarios are very sophisticated—everything feels flat and not quite real, nothing like a holodeck or what he always imagined a VR would feel like. There's only one puddlejumper training scenario; and, anyway, what's the point when he has the real thing? If it had some serious flying scenarios, like a mach jet or a helo—but no, and once he found the sex scenario, an uncategorized one that's obviously somebody's sad little hack—

Actually, John's just a tiny bit worried that's what's snagged Rodney's interest, because she's blonde, and pale in that Ancient-y kind of way. John backed out of it quickly when he realized what it was, thinking how fucked up the Ancients really were, how sick their society must have been that one of their own would pervert a training tool this way, adding a blow-up doll with her fake interest and unseeing eyes.

Even as he thinks about it he knows there's no way that's what has Rodney drifting back to that room over and over again, because what he and John have going between them is so much hotter than that, it's crazy.

It has to be something else, and before John can stop himself he's putting down his coffee and asking, "So, what scenario have you been looking at?"

Rodney pushes away his tray and lifts his head. "I don't have to tell you that," he says in a low voice. "Weir gave strict orders—"

"Yeah, I'm really good at following those." John takes a sip of his coffee. "Anyway, she didn't order us not to ask; she just said no one has to tell if they don't want to."

Rodney crosses his arms. "Well, maybe I don't want to tell."

"How come?"

"It's private."

"So? How private can it be?" John steals a slice of carrot and immediately regrets it. "Yuck."

Rodney smirks at him. "Private is private. It isn't a matter of degree."

"Like hell. There's your high school nickname," John leans forward and says, real low, "And then there's your personal preference for how many fingers you like—"

Rodney's hand claps over John's mouth.

"Oumfh."

"Serves you right," Rodney says before pulling his hand away.

John works his jaw for a second. "What's the big deal? Look, give me five guesses, okay?"

Propping his elbows on the table, Rodney peers at him over steepled fingers. "This...might be interesting, actually. If you think you know enough about me. All right. Five. No more."

John wants to dive right in, but something makes him pull back, and suddenly he can see the interface in front of him and the way the training scenarios are laid out in neat categories. It would be easier to just narrow things down that way; and, anyway, Rodney hasn't made up any rules. So John holds back a grin and says, "Science related."

Rodney's eyes widen for a second before they narrow. "Wrong."

So, then. Nothing in the sciences, but maybe something physical? Sports-related? Or...John eyes Rodney and wonders for a moment, and thinks about those hands, and how graceful they are, even doing everyday stuff like screwing a panel onto a console.

"Humanities," John hazards.

Rodney's eyes narrow further into slits. "Correct."

_Awesome._ Not literature, because John has heard all the rants, and anyway there's only one literature scenario and it's for editing. John stares at the ceiling and scrolls down the list in his head, seeing painting, sculpture, something called theocraphile, which—he has no idea, goddamned crazy Ancients—

"Performance." The word comes out of his mouth before he stops himself, and he winces, because he thinks it might be way off, but Rodney blinks and nods.

"Correct," he says dryly.

Under performance is a whole bunch of stuff: dance—_heh, no way_—performance art, music—_hmmm._

"Music."

Rodney looks away without answering.

_Bingo._ "Rodney."

"I have to go."

"It's our day off."

"Yes. And my laundry won't do itself."

"Yeah, it pretty much does. Stick it in the thingy; push the big button."

Rodney starts to get up. "So I'll go stick it. If you don't mind."

"I'll give you a hand." John gets up, too, and grabs their trays, but Rodney is a speedy little fucker, and by the time John's put the trays on the cart and followed, Rodney's already a flash of white inside the transporter. John gets in and presses the wing for Rodney's quarters, and sees him vanishing again behind the sliding doors.

John palms the crystal and it lets him in. "Gee. I'd almost think you were trying to ditch me."

"That's because I _was_, Major McBlivious," Rodney says viciously. He's got a double armful of dirty clothes that he's trying to stuff into the cleaning chamber, but he can't hold it open at the same time.

"Let me get that," John says, and pulls the handle.

"Thanks," Rodney mutters.

"So. Music."

Rodney slams the hatch shut and punches the button hard. The cleaning unit protests with a beep, and John nudges Rodney's hand away to press it again until it glows orange for _on_.

"There. Laundry's done. So," John turns and leans his back against the wall, "what kind of music?"

Rodney groans inarticulately and scrubs his hands over his head before waving them in John's face. "You annoying _you_—you just won't let this—_why_ won't you just let this _go_!"

"Wow. That was pretty...something of you."

"Arrrgh!"

"Heh."

Rodney plops down on the side of the bed and drops his head into his hands, which means it's the right time for John to finally approach and push him flat and crawl on top of him. Rodney's face was pink with fury but it's fading now, and John pulls him sideways until he's tucked under John's arm.

"So. About the music..."

Rodney makes a weak, hoarse noise that is immediately identifiable as capitulation, so John just waits this time.

After a while, Rodney stirs and says, "I used to play the piano. Quite well, actually. I was a...a fine clinical player." He makes a snorting sound right afterward. "That's a quote, in case you're wondering."

"Clinical, huh? Sounds...good," John says dubiously.

"Not at all, actually. What my teacher meant was, I have no sense of soul, as in rhythm. I do fine as long as it's directly on the beat, whether it be a quarter note, eighth note or sixteenth. But obviously there's more to music than playing like a metronome."

_Ouch._ "Sorry."

"Yes. The Man in Black would not approve. Neither would Chopin, apparently."

John bites his lip. "So, in the scenario?"

Rodney turns his head, and John can see it, the avid gleam in his eye, and it makes John's chest ache.

"Even with their bizarre excuse for music, I can hear it in there, when I'm playing along with the training program and it's making me do it right. When I'm listening to other people do it out here, it happens way too fast and I can never _hear_ it fast enough, I can never understand, nail down an equation for it, but when I'm in there, it feels like it's me, and I'm almost finally getting it, like it's right on the tip of my brain, you know? I can almost, just—"

"Rodney."

"Just a few more times, I swear, if I do it just a few more times, I know I can get it right out here, as well—"

John wants to believe it. But Rodney's been in there almost every free hour he's had for the past three weeks, probably doing the same scenario over and over and over again. Trying to understand this one simple thing that's just never going to be his. As brilliant as he is, he just doesn't have whatever synapses he needs for this one thing.

"If I just keep trying—I'm almost certain..." Rodney's voice falters into silence.

John gets wanting something that bad, he really does, but he thinks maybe Rodney's missing something. He doesn't see he's already an artist, taking the raw materials around him and creating miracles of engineering, and that there's artistry in that—it's the magic of making things _real_. Just like Rodney walked into John's life and told him to look inside and _imagine_, and John did. Just like Rodney made _them_ real by walking into John's quarters and grabbing him by his vest and—

He's just not going to get this one thing.

"Rodney," John whispers again, and he's so, so sorry. It's in his voice, and he's sorry about that, too, because he sees it hit Rodney's face like a stone dropping, right before Rodney turns and tucks his head away out of reach, and John's left with the tender curve of his neck.

John rests his chin there and doesn't say he's sorry, but breathes it into Rodney's skin, hoping he can hear it anyway. And he tries to tell Rodney what he was thinking, in faltering words about art made of capacitors and diodes and optical cable, and soul and music streaming from equations, but it comes out all wrong and Rodney chuckles brokenly and punches him in the shoulder and then kisses him, and that's better than talking, anyway.

And if Rodney's kisses taste a little salty, John's not going to say anything.

Maybe someday he'll tell Rodney about the Ph.D. he wanted in aeronautical engineering but didn't have the brains to get. About Nancy and the baby she didn't want to try for.

Maybe there's a reason, maybe there's not, but there are some things you just aren't meant to have.

For right now, John's going to hold onto the one thing he does.

  


_End_.

**Author's Note:**

> Rodney's 'quote' is from SG-1, S6E2 from his teacher: "'A fine clinical player,' he said, 'but no sense of the art whatsoever.'"
> 
> Rodney also said music was his salvation as an escape from his parents, who hated each other and blamed him. :( He said music "had this...perfect order." Which it does, and I love that about it, the many many threads all interweaving, but of course it becomes so much more when you bend the notes.


End file.
